The Great Salsa Challenge
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Tristan Wormwood challenges Sherlock Holmes to a salsa-eating contest. Who will prevail? A vignette from one of my other stories, "The Grinning Gargoyle." If you haven't read what I've done so far, you might want to read that first, so this will make more sense. This idea came to me in the early hours of the morning, so it might seem a bit weird in the light of day. Oh, well.
1. Challenge Accepted

**This came to me just before I started getting ready for bed. It may be a bit silly, but hopefully it is also funny. Just some clarification: Xen's last name is Keller; and John has firemaking abilities because he has adopted a phoenix, and thus has been given the powers of one so he can look after her properly. Of course, you'd know this if you'd read what I've written so far in ****_The Grinning Gargoyle_**** (hint, hint).**

One day, Tristan Wormwood and Calla Gardiner came to visit Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (and their dragon and phoenix, respectively named Fang and Stella). Interestingly, when they came down the stairs from John's room into the main part of the flat (Tristan had a habit of coming in through the upstairs window, because to him it was more fun that way), Calla was carrying a large bag of tortilla chips, and Tristan had what appeared to be a jar of salsa gingerly clutched in his claws.

"What's that?" asked John, indicating the food stuffs.

"It's something new that Xen made up today," Tristan said, referring to his fiancee back home in America. "It's an old family recipe, passed down from Keller to Keller, for one of the spiciest, most tongue-frying salsas in the history of the universe. I brought you a jar, because it might help with your firemaking skills." He held out the jar reverently.

John accepted it, and twisted the lid off. He peered in curiously; it looked like ordinary salsa at first: red, with hints of peppers and onions and a few other choice ingredients inside. But upon closer examination, he could see it was a bit brighter red than most types, and there were strange flecks of gold inside. He looked up at the gargoyle.

"Is it safe?"

"Yeah, sure. Got a bit of a kick to it, though." To demonstrate, Tristan opened the bag, selected a chip, dipped it into the sauce, and crunched it. As soon as the piece hit his tongue, he gasped, his brain seeming quite unable to comprehend the fire that had just been lit in his mouth. John could swear he actually saw wisps of smoke coming out of Tristan's mouth as he coughed and choked. But after a few seconds he stood up straight, wiping at his streaming eyes, and grinned at the doctor.

"I love this stuff!"

Sherlock snorted from the table, where he was sitting and looking at something through his microscope, with Fang draped over his shoulders lazily.

"I have yet to understand why people are stupid enough to eat something that causes that sort of reaction."

Tristan gave him a look. "Oh, like you never do anything dangerous, or that causes a reaction. Don't be a hypocrite. Besides, it's good."

"The negative reaction usually happens to other people. I personally would never indulge in a foodstuff that would make me look like a dying fish when I tasted it." He went back to his microscope. Neither he nor John was prepared for Tristan to shoot back, "Eh, that's just as well. You probably couldn't handle it."

Sherlock looked up at the gargoyle through narrowed gray eyes.

"Are you challenging me?" His voice was filled to the brim with incredulity.

Tristan shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." Sherlock started to look away.

"...Because I would win claws down, and it would be a far bigger blow than your enormous ego could take."

Now there was no question in Sherlock's mind that he was being challenged. He slowly pushed back the microscope and stood. Tristan looked at him mildly, and bit into another chip. He only winced a little bit this time, probably because his taste buds had been so fried by the first bite that it no longer bothered him as much. The taller, older detective marched over, looming over him.

"I can handle as much of that mixture of tomatoes, cilantro, peppers and onions as you can. Much more, in fact."

"Yeah? Prove it." Tristan held out the chip bag.

"No, that's too simple, and you're already desensitized at the moment from eating some. I propose a challenge."

"You're on."

A few minutes later, when Tristan's tongue had recovered from the initial taste, he and Sherlock sat at opposite ends of the table, glaring at each other. Calla had sent a message to Xen explaining the situation, and a few minutes later two new jars of salsa had materialized in the room (along with a note from Xen saying that this was really stupid, and that if Tristan wound up hurting himself, he should remember that she told him so; but it was written in a tone that expressed more eye-rolling, affectionate exasperation than nagging); these sat on the table, one next to each man. There were also two bags of chips on the table, open and ready. Calla sat on the sofa, watching out of wide brown eyes, with the animals nearby. John stood at the side of the table, holding a stopwatch, acting as their referee. He personally also felt that this whole thing was very stupid, but the men's minds were made up, so he decided to indulge them, and offer medical assistance if necessary.

"Right, you know the rules. You have ten minutes, in which you are to eat as much salsa as you can handle. The first one to finish his jar, or at least who can eat the most without requiring water or anything similar to relieve him, wins. You can take small breaks from eating if you wish, but you must not leave the table. Understand?"

"Yes," they both growled.

"Last chance to back out, if either of you so wishes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

"All right." John pressed the stopwatch. "Go."

**Feel free to vote on who you think should win the challenge! I plan for this to be only a two-part thing, so choose quickly. If you think anyone should win at all (jarring chord!).**


	2. Resolution Reached

Sherlock was the first to take a bite of the salsa; in a rather rash moment, he took a rather large scoop onto the chip, shoving it into his mouth. As soon as he'd done so, he regretted it; he choked, struggling to breathe through the flames that he knew weren't really licking his mouth, but sure as heck felt like it. Somehow he managed to chew up the chip, and choke it down, but he was still in considerable pain. He looked up through streaming eyes, and saw Tristan smiling smugly at him as he dipped one of his own chips, getting only half of what Sherlock had scooped (_he's taunting me, trying to prove he doesn't need to start out strong to have the advantage_).

"Give up?" he asked, before biting into it with a satisfied crunch. Sherlock just scowled, and resolutely grabbed another chip.

By the time three minutes had passed, both men were really starting to regret this whole thing. Somehow, this salsa didn't even give you the advantage of making your mouth go numb after a while (probably due to some of the Keller family's secret ingredients), so each new bite over an extended period of time made you feel like you'd fried your taste buds off all over again. However, they were both too proud to admit it.

By four minutes, Tristan's jar was a third empty; Sherlock's was a quarter of an inch less than that. He hurriedly scooped an extra bite into his mouth to shave off that amount; Sherlock gagged slightly at the taste, mentally cursing Tristan's fiancee and all her ancestors up to whoever had invented this horrid food. The consulting detective ate more, and couldn't help a twisted grin; he had passed the gargoyle, who was taking a break to breathe. Then Tristan noticed, and with a defiant glare began eating again.

By eight minutes, they were both about three-quarters of the way through. Tristan was starting to feel quite sick, and more than anything in the world wanted to stop eating salsa. But his opponent's stubborn pride in continuing, even if the odds were against him winning, wouldn't let him. Of course, he knew his own pride was involved too, but he'd be perfectly willing to stop whenever Sherlock was. Preferably before either of them threw up or passed out. As he extended a claw to grab another chip, his stomach clenched with revulsion. He hoped this wouldn't last; he wanted to be able to walk away from this still able to eat salsa-

Ugh. Just thinking the word was making him feel sick. Hurriedly he dipped the chip, and stuffed it into his mouth so he wouldn't think about it.

There were thirty seconds left on the clock. John was tempted to call time early, just to spare them, but he knew that Sherlock would know, and call him out on it. So he had to wait, and after the watch reached zero, cried (with some relief) "Okay, time up!"

Instantly Sherlock bolted from his chair and headed to the sink, putting his mouth directly under the tap. Tristan shoved the jar away, and laid his head on the table with a groan. Unfortunately, being a gargoyle, he forgot his own strength, so a few seconds later there was a loud, splintering crash. He jerked his head up, and saw that both jars of salsa had been knocked off the table.

"NO!" he wailed, leaping to his feet. Then the gargoyle looked sharply at John. "Who was ahead?!"

John recovered from the shock of the breaking glass, and stammered, "I don't know, you were pretty much tied!"

Sherlock turned, spewing water, and managed to say in a wet, indignant tone, "That can't be true! It's logically impossible!"

"Not when a contest like this is between two of the stubbornest people in the history of the universe," the doctor retorted, going to fetch a flannel.

"Don't worry about it, Doctor," Calla said from the sofa. She got up, and stood in front of the table. Then she waved her hands, and the pieces of glass and spilled salsa rose into the air, the jars reassembling themselves on the table. Then she twitched her fingers, and the blob of salsa hovered in the air over them.

"Do you want to go for a second round as a tiebreaker?" she asked innocently.

Both detective's faces took on an expression of utmost horror, and at almost the same time they vigorously shook their heads no. John couldn't help exhaling in relief.

A few weeks later, John and Stella were home alone while Sherlock had taken Fang out for a walk. John planned to get very absorbed in a good book (_The Big Four_ by Agatha Christie, if you want to know) while the phoenix slept on his lap, but he needed something to snack on while he did so. He dug through the cupboards, looking for whatever he was craving, but nothing seemed good. And then he looked in the fridge, and found the original jar of salsa that had been his gift from Xen. At first, remembering his friends' reactions, he was disinclined. But his stomach grumbled, and he thought, _Well, why not? After all, this was intended for me. Maybe I can handle it better_. So he took the jar and a bag of chips, settled himself in his chair with the phoenix sprawled over his knees, opened the book, and absentmindedly dipped the chip, before taking a bite.

When Sherlock came back in, he found John almost finished with the book, and with an empty jar of salsa at his elbow. The doctor finished his last chip, and looked up at the dumbstruck detective with a grin.

"Think it could have used a bit more cilantro."

**Tee hee, I want to thank Arty Diane for giving me the idea of how to end this. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.**


End file.
